When John woke up, he immediately wished he hadn't opened his eyes at all. His head pounded as if a jackhammer was going off inside it. The moment he dared to crack his eyes open wider than a squint, the entire world spun in dizzying circles, sending a wave of nausea crashing over his stomach. He let out a grunt, gritting his teeth in discomfort. What on earth was happening?
Somewhere in the distance, he heard a voice.
"Hey, hey mate, are you okay?"
It took a monumental effort, but he managed to turn his head toward the sound, squinting against the harsh, piercing light. He was startled to see that the voice was not far away at all; a young man stood directly over him, dressed in a stylish long coat, his brows drawn together in a curious blend of concern and barely concealed judgment. It was an odd combination that made John blink in confusion.
"What...?" His voice came out hoarse, each word a struggle as if he were speaking with a mouthful of cotton, a bitter taste lingering unpleasantly on his tongue.
The man studied him with narrowed eyes, clearly unimpressed. "Had a long night, mate?"
John struggled to articulate a coherent response, but all he managed was a jumbled mumble, a chaotic string of sounds. The stranger exhaled sharply, a hint of resignation slipping into his tone.
"I'm not trying to be judgmental, but this really isn't the place for you to sleep. It's the middle of the street, you know. Families walk through here. If you want to get plastered and pass out, maybe try a homeless shelter or one of the abandoned buildings nearby. I know there are folks like you hanging around there."
What the...?
"Not homeless," John managed to assert, focusing on making his words clear, fighting against his swirling mind.
The man raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Alright, whatever you say. Just… get out of here. It's cold outside anyway. You shouldn't be sleeping here; you could get sick or something."
"Where? Where am I exactly?" John started to ask, looking around but quickly realized he didn't need to.
He recognized the street easily, having walked it countless times. People passed by, their glances heavy with judgment—some with furrowed brows of disapproval, others tinged with concern. Something was undeniably off. Why was he sleeping on the street? He should be back home, snuggled in bed next to Mary.
It took quite a while, but slowly, the fragmented memories of the previous night began to resurface like pieces of a shattered puzzle falling into place.
The bar, the drinking, the anger, and then... shit.
"I... I got hit by a car," he mumbled, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.
"You don't look like you got hit by a car, man," the stranger replied, skepticism clear in his voice.
John's mind was spinning, and he quickly, maybe a bit too quickly, tried to get up. The world around him tilted alarmingly. He bent over, certain he was going to retch, the acrid taste of nausea rising in his throat.
"No, I remember! I got hit! Shit… I think I have a concussion," he gasped, panic clawing at his insides.
Yet something felt off. The memory of the car rushed back—a flash of blinding headlights and the deafening impact. But as he stood there, expecting pain to ripple through him, he felt… strangely fine. He looked at his hands, which he was sure he had raised to brace for the impact. His skin was unmarked, and his body was free of any aches, save for a relentless pulsing in his skull.
He looked down and stared in disbelief at his clothes—perfectly intact, with no signs of tears or damage. Not even a drop of blood.
If he had been hit by that car, where were the injuries? More pressing, why was he sprawled out on the sidewalk? Why hadn't anyone called for help? An ambulance or the police or anything?
"Look, man, I don't know what you're on, but I have things to do, so I really just… I don't know. Get yourself together and find help…" The stranger shook his head, eyeing John with barely concealed disgust before turning to leave.
John barely registered the man's departure. His thoughts were racing.
He remembered the car, clear as day, but the more he thought about it, the more ludicrous it seemed.
How much had he actually drunk last night? Was it really the whole bottle? God, he couldn't remember the last time he drank so much—med school, maybe?
Could it be that he had hallucinated the entire thing? There was no way he could have survived a taxi smashing into him without so much as a bruise to show for it. There was no way he would be sleeping calmly after that. He must have hallucinated… or even dreamed about it…
Did he really get that drunk? That he ended up sleeping on the street?
Anger flared back to life, rekindling the rage that had consumed him the night before. Christ. It had only been a day since Sherlock had returned, and now here John was—lying on the pavement like some drunken vagrant.
Thank goodness no one had called the police! The mere thought of explaining this to Lestrade made him wince. He hadn't seen the man in months, and the next time they met, he would have to pick John up from the street after he drank himself into oblivion? Lestrade would surely send him straight to an AA meeting… right after taking hundreds of incriminating photos for future blackmail material.
John tried his best to get up, but he immediately started swaying on his feet. What a mess this was.
He hastily patted himself down, his fingers frantically searching through the crumpled fabric of his pockets. Wallet—check. Phone—check. Keys? Yes, they were there too. At least he hadn't been robbed. That would be an interesting police report to file.
John took a deep breath and grimaced as the smell hit his nostrils, instinctively scrunching his face in disgust. Jesus, he reeked. Just the thought of how he must look sent a rush of shame through him.
There was no way he would be able to hide this from Mary. What a trip down memory lane that will be—John showing up as the same wreck of a man he was when they first met. He could only hope she will be understanding.
His head throbbed with relentless pain as he raised a hand to flag down a taxi. It was taking far longer than usual, and again, he couldn't help but wonder what the hell he looked like right now.
As he waited, his mind betrayed him, conjuring images of Sherlock—bloodied and wielding a harpoon—saying something about tubes. Because no taxi would take him. Maybe John should just hop on the tube right now...
No. No, stop it. No thinking about him! John was in this mess because of Sherlock. He didn't want any wisdom or advice from the man, be it past, present, or future.
He just wanted to get home and sort himself out.
Finally, as if the universe took pity on him, a taxi driver slowed down, eyeing John with a mix of reluctance and curiosity. Without wasting a moment, John climbed awkwardly into the back seat.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
"221B…" John began, only to quickly curse under his breath. The driver flinched, looking at him with alarm, clearly regretting his decision to stop for this mess of a man.
"Sorry, sorry, that's not…" John stammered, trying to reassure the driver even as the hairs on his arms stood on end from his blunder. "I just… I had a really bad night."
The driver's expression softened.
"We all have those," he said, his voice taking on a more compassionate tone. "Let's get you home, alright? So where are we driving?"
This time, John made sure to provide the correct address—the address of his and Mary's house. Home.
They rode in silence. John sensed the unease radiating from the driver. Part of him wanted to break the silence to ease the man's discomfort, but the knot in his stomach held him back. He didn't dare open his mouth; the nausea still swirled dangerously in his gut. This stranger had been kind enough to give him a ride; the least he could do was avoid ruining the man's pristine carpet with his insides.
When the car finally rolled to a stop outside the familiar house, John exhaled. He tipped the driver generously, a small act of gratitude for a ride that had felt like a lifeline. But as he stepped onto the pavement, dread settled back in his chest. Each footfall toward the door felt like a step toward a verdict.
Surely Mary would understand, right? After everything he had been through, especially with… him coming back, she would show compassion. Wouldn't she?
He rang the doorbell and waited... and waited... and waited.
But nothing happened.
His brow furrowed in confusion as he checked his phone. Mary should be up by now; this was the hour she usually prepared breakfast, the precise moment when John would typically stumble out of bed to join her for their morning tea.
Why wasn't she answering?
He pressed the doorbell again, only to be met with the same disheartening silence. John peered through the window, but the curtains were drawn tight, blocking any view into the house.
A sense of unease settled in his stomach. Did Mary go somewhere? But if he didn't come home last night, wouldn't she still be here waiting for him? Oh God...
Cold dread coursed through John. Was she out there looking for him? God, he was such a jerk. Why hadn't he thought of that? Of course, she would be worried if he didn't come home last night. But then he glanced back at his phone—there were no missed calls, no messages—nothing.
If she was truly worried, wouldn't she have tried to reach him? Wouldn't she check on him before setting out to search? That didn't make sense…
Movement caught his eye, and he turned just in time to see their neighbour, Bethany—a sweet elderly woman—peek through her curtain. Her gaze flitted around nervously before landing on him. John felt a jolt of guilt. Was he being too loud?
He waved his hand and offered a reassuring smile, signalling that everything was alright. But if anything, his gesture seemed to make things worse. Her eyes widened in horror, and before he could process what was happening, the curtain dropped, leaving him in stunned silence.
What the…? Bethany had always been so friendly towards him. In fact, she was probably more friendly towards him than towards Mary. After all, Mary was never invited over for tea and biscuits. So why this reaction?
Did he truly look so wretched that even the most amiable neighbour would run away at the sight of him?
He glanced at his reflection in the window, a rough silhouette with unkempt hair and maybe a bit too much stubble. Yes, he needed a shower—a change of clothes, too. He just needed to get himself together, honestly.
With a heavy sigh, he pondered how the sudden reappearance of one man had the power to upend his life so completely.
Then again, the first appearance of that man had turned his life upside down as well, so maybe he should have seen this coming.
Tiredly, John reached into his pocket and pulled out his key, thanking his lucky stars again that he hadn't been robbed last night.
Maybe he could turn things around. Perhaps no one he knew had seen him drunk and passed out on the side of the road. If he could just shower and change before Mary returned home, he could call her and reassure her that everything was fine—he'd simply lost track of time and ended up crashing on a friend's couch. A quick call to Mike for a fabricated alibi would do the trick. Maybe he could pretend none of this had happened.
With his hopeful plan taking shape, John approached the door and tried to slide his key into the lock… but it refused to go in.
"What the…?" he muttered, confusion edging into frustration as he twisted the key every possible way.
Despite his efforts, the lock stubbornly denied him access. John checked and double-checked; it had to be the right key. He only owned three: one for home, another for the practice, and the third for Baker Street—the one he really needed to return to Mrs. Hudson.
Just to be safe, and because he was starting to believe his mind was playing tricks on him, he pulled out the other key and tried again.
Nothing.
In desperation, he even tried the key to 221B, and still… nothing.
"Goddammit!" he yelled in frustration, his voice echoing sharply.
This time, when he heard a squeak from his left, he wasn't even surprised. He glanced back just in time to see Bethany disappear behind the curtains again. Looks like he'd be paying her a visit later with some apology biscuits.
For now, though, he had more pressing issues.
Someone had changed his locks—there was no other explanation. But who? Mary would never do something like this without saying a word; they had never even discussed it.
John sighed heavily, dread curling in his gut. He had to call Mary, even if it meant facing her in his current dishevelled state.
…Or he could scale the window and break in…
No! Definitely not. That wasn't the kind of thing he was doing anymore. That was the kind of crazy thing he would do with…
No, he shook his head. Not going there.
Instead, he looked at his phone again, scrolling through his contacts—and froze.
What the hell was this? His contact list was nearly empty—just a few names: Harry, some old army colleagues he hadn't seen in years, and then one solitary entry: his therapist, whom he hadn't consulted in months. Where were all the others? Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? Molly? And most urgently, where was Mary's number?
John looked and scrolled again, but no more numbers appeared.
Then, another realization crashed over him: Where was Sherlock's number?
Something twisted in his heart—a visceral, instinctual reaction. Where was Sherlock's phone number? The one he had used when he jumped…
John took a sharp breath as terror washed over him. Had he been so drunk the night before that he actually deleted his contacts? Had he been so furious that he'd gone so far as to erase that vital connection—Sherlock's number, the one he had clung to, even as it twisted his heart each time he saw it? Could his anger run that deep? Was he capable of severing that part of himself…?
His stomach churned, and this time, he was sure it had little to do with the alcohol from the night before.
He didn't know what was happening, but he knew something was wrong. Even at his lowest, when Mary had had to scrape him off the bottom, he couldn't fathom the idea of deleting Sherlock's number. He could even believe he might delete Mary's number, but not…
It didn't feel right. It wasn't right.
And suddenly, a grim realization settled in—he wasn't so sure that he was the one who deleted his contacts. Because he was sure as hell that he wasn't the one who changed his locks. What were the odds that two bizarre coincidences would occur simultaneously?
What had Sherlock always said about coincidences? Ah, yes—the universe is rarely so lazy. And what else did he use to quip? Oh, right, 'You see, John, but you do not observe.'
"God, that bloody cock!" John shouted, not caring that Bethany's curtains shook violently once again.
It had to be him, didn't it? Who else would do something so strange and unusual? Who was the steadfast provider of the weird, the strange, and the utterly unusual in John Watson's life?
"That absolute dickhead!" John seethed as he stormed down the path, steam practically rising from his ears.
This was the only explanation that made sense. Sherlock was messing with him. John could almost picture that infuriating smirk on Sherlock's face, revelling in the chaos he had orchestrated. He probably knew John was passed out on the side of the road and thought, 'Oh, what a lovely opportunity to go and be a dick.'
Why hadn't he considered it before? It was obvious that Mycroft Holmes would absolutely know John was drunk and passed out in the middle of London, what with his army of security cameras at every corner. Heck, even without them! He probably could predict where John would collapse before he even left the bar. A quick text to Sherlock, and voilà—the twisted game was set in motion. Whatever that game was, because John honestly had no idea.
He must've been the one who sent Mary away—a charming little distraction for Sherlock's twisted games. It was high time to sit her down and lay it all out: Sherlock Holmes was a lying wanker and not to be trusted.
And that ridiculous stunt with the locks and his phone? What kind of sick joke was that?
"That fucker!" John exploded, barely registering the bewildered stares from passersby as he stalked through the busy streets.
John had no intention of hailing a taxi; he could only imagine the reluctance of any driver to take him on, given the fury radiating from him. Cooling off wasn't on the agenda this time either. After years of living alongside Sherlock Holmes, he refused to stand around like a fool. The only way to handle that insufferable man was to confront him directly.
He didn't even remember the tube ride; he could barely register the odd looks he was receiving. He was too busy fuming. The world was a blur of red, and he cared about nothing else but getting to Baker Street. Each step was fuelled by his mounting rage, burning brightly against the muted colours of the city.
Before he knew it, he stood before the familiar sight of the 221B building.
It was only then that he faltered for a moment. Just like last time, a flood of memories hit him all at once. He couldn't escape it; this place had a way of unlocking the floodgates.
But today was different. Unlike yesterday, when nostalgia clawed at his heart with a dull ache that Mary could never quite soothe, today the memories ignited a fire in his chest, causing him to clench his fists tightly at his sides. In the blink of an eye, he fumbled for the key, his fingers shaking with pent-up energy as he aimed it at the familiar black door.
… But the key wouldn't fit.
"Are you kidding me, you bloody wanker?! Here too?!" John shouted, his voice echoing down the empty street. He didn't bother trying the other keys; he knew they wouldn't work. Of course not, because Sherlock Holmes had gone on a lock-changing spree last night!
He knew it. His instincts had been spot on. It was Sherlock's doing. Naturally!
Without wasting any time, John began pounding on the door. "Open up! I'm not playing your bloody games!" He continued to bang relentlessly, consumed by a fury that nearly made him strike Mrs. Hudson when she suddenly swung the door open.
"Oh shi—" he cursed, halting mid-motion as he stumbled back, suddenly aware of the woman standing before him, her kitchen apron tied tightly around her waist and flour dusting her hands. He had clearly interrupted her cooking.
"What on earth...? Are you out of your mind? You can't just bang on someone's door like that!" she exclaimed, clearly affronted.
John took a steadying breath, trying to regain his composure. Right, this was between him and Sherlock; there was no need to take it out on poor Mrs. Hudson.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I really am," he said through clenched teeth. "But I'm in a serious situation here thanks to your bloody tenant upstairs, and I really need to have words with him right now."
Mrs. Hudson was looking at him... strangely. It was the only way to describe it. With... was it suspicion? No, it was... he didn't even know what it was, but it felt unsettling.
"Y-You're here to see... Sherlock?" she asked hesitantly, her uncertainty catching John off guard and making his anger waver.
"Yes," he replied, steadying his voice. "Is he in?"
Mrs. Hudson's expression remained inscrutable, but her head bobbed sharply in agreement.
"He is… but I'm not comfortable letting you inside…"
Oh, dammit. John's patience evaporated in an instant. Without a second thought, he slipped past her, crossing the threshold. Mrs. Hudson's startled gasp echoed in his ears, tugging at his conscience just a bit.
"Excuse me! Who do you think you are, barging in here?" she demanded, hands on her hips in a furious stance.
"I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Hudson," he said hastily. "I swear I will come back and apologize properly after I've spoken with Sherlock, but right now I really need to—"
"I don't care what you need!" she interrupted, a flash of righteous anger igniting in her eyes. That fiery response was oddly comforting, much better than her earlier confusion.
"I know I'm being rude, but—"
"You're being insane! I have half a mind to call the police! A strange man barging into a lady's house like this…"
"A strange man?" John echoed sharply, cutting through Mrs. Hudson's tirade.
"I do not know you, which makes you a stranger to me. Just because you know Sherlock doesn't give you the right to—"
"A stranger to you? Are you kidding me, Mrs. Hudson?"
"How do you even know my name?" she snapped. "I doubt Sherlock told you. Some days, I'm not even sure he remembers it himself…" A flicker of sadness crossed her face, and usually, that would stir concern in John—but not now.
"Oh, great! Lovely! So, he's got you in on it too?" John burst out. "What's your role in this? You pretend you don't know me, really?"
Mrs. Hudson's reaction was not what John anticipated. Instead of looking sheepish or apologetic as if to soften the blow of Sherlock's enigmatic ways, she appeared simply stunned.
And it just irritated John even more.
"Seriously, Mrs. Hudson?! You were upset with me for not calling, but Sherlock fakes his death and all is nice and forgiven, huh? Forget everyone else's feelings—Sherlock's back, let the games begin!"
He had to give it to Mrs. Hudson; she was an exceptional actress. The genuine shock on her face held no trace of humour or deceit. She was just staring at him, utterly speechless.
"You… Are you a… friend of Sherlock's?" she finally asked, her voice wavering with uncertainty.
"Clearly not, because you sure as hell don't treat your friends this way!" he retorted, already making his way up the stairs, desperate to escape the convoluted theatre unfolding around him. He wanted no part in whatever madness was brewing in 221B.
He took two, even three, steps at once, fuelled by a singular purpose to confront that bloody…
He didn't bother knocking; he gave no warning. He simply grabbed the doorknob, twisted it hard, and flung the door open with a force that sent it crashing against the wall.
"Oh, dear neighbours!" he faintly heard Mrs. Hudson exclaiming in the background.
But John paid her no mind. He was too preoccupied with… lots of things, actually.
As soon as he stepped foot into the familiar flat, a sharp, acrid smell assaulted his senses, making his eyes water instantly. The flat had never smelled like that, not even when Sherlock was knee-deep in his most elaborate experiments.
He scanned the room, and his heart sank at the chaotic scene before him: flasks and Petri dishes were scattered across every available surface. Bunsen burners crackled ominously, their flames dancing beneath colourful concoctions, while beakers and pipettes created a haphazard sculpture on the kitchen table. Were there test tubes in the sink? And—was that a chromatograph in the corner?! Where did Sherlock even get that? Christ, did he rob the lab last night, too?
John shook his head in disbelief. How could one person create such a catastrophic mess in such a short span of time? He had only been here yesterday, and the flat had been relatively orderly. Now, it looked as though a tornado had ripped through the place, leaving destruction in its wake.
"What the bloody hell, Sherlock? What have you done to this place?" John exclaimed, so disturbed by the smells and mess that he almost forgot to be angry.
But as he asked the question, he realized he mostly threw it into the air.
As he surveyed the room, he found no sign of the familiar mop of brown hair or the worn bathrobe that typically hung around the lanky figure of his flatmate. Sherlock was nowhere in sight. "Sherlock?" John called out again, his voice more insistent this time.
In response, he heard a disgruntled grunt, muffled and petulant, coming from a lumpy pile of fabric on the sofa.
It didn't take long for John to realize that the pile of clothes was moving.
He gulped, a strange feeling washing over him as unease roiled in his gut. Why did it feel like he was missing some crucial piece of the puzzle? Or perhaps Sherlock intended it that way—to confuse him?
He still had no idea what game Sherlock was playing.
"I see you decided to sleep in," John said, straining to keep his voice calm despite the irritation creeping back in. He stepped closer, his gaze fixed on the pile of blankets and clothes. "I suppose that's sensible—you must be exhausted after all the deleting contacts and changing locks you did last night. Did you enjoy yourself? Because I certainly did not."
Peering closer, he caught a glimpse of brown hair peeking out from beneath the pile. The head shifted slightly, confirming that Sherlock was indeed present and listening.
John clenched his jaw.
"Honestly, Sherlock, I … I don't know what you were trying to accomplish here, but I hope it was to piss me the fuck off because that's the only result you're achieving. If your end goal was to drive me absolutely bonkers, congratulations, you've succeeded."
But there was nothing—no reaction, no sardonic quip, nothing at the hell was he doing?
"I'm serious here, Sherlock. No more games. I'm not interested in whatever charade you're attempting to play. This isn't… this isn't funny or clever, or whatever it is you think you're doing." John pressed, the frustration mounting.
Did Sherlock really believe that by pretending to be invisible, John would simply disappear? If he couldn't see John, then John couldn't see him? What was he—some bloody rabbit?!
"Alright, that's it. I'm done. I am—truly—fully done," John declared firmly, stepping closer until he loomed over the pile. With a swift, decisive motion, he seized a handful of fabric. "Sherlock Holmes, you bloody wanker, get your arse up and explain yourself!"
With a quick yank, he tossed the pile aside, uncovering the unmistakable figure of Sherlock Holmes. There was that familiar cascade of dark hair, the bathrobe draped haphazardly over him, and the...
John froze. A chill raced through him, a primal instinct urging him to take a step back. Yes, those piercing, familiar eyes of Sherlock Holmes were locked onto his with an intensity that sent shivers down his spine.
… But there was also a gun; its metallic barrel pointed directly at John's head.